Annual Sacrifices
by Alexandra Lyman
Summary: A prequel to my CS angel/demon AU fic, Between Heaven and Hell. Every year she leaves him for forty days, and every year she comes back. It's an annual ritual Killian doesn't quite understand, but Emma has her reasons. No matter how hard their separation is on the both of them, they go through this every year.


**Author's Notes: This is a prequel of sorts to my fic _Between Heaven and Hell_, and probably won't make much sense unless you've read it. Angel!Emma and Demon!Killian AU - every year Emma forgoes all contact with Killian for the forty days of Lent, a ritual he hates. But Emma's reasons for leaving him are not quite what Killian assumes them to be.**

**Timewise, this takes place a year or two before Will started working for Killian.**

* * *

_**Absolution**_

**Shrove Tuesday**

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Emma, are we seriously going to go through this EVERY YEAR?"

She ignored the grumbling coming from the bed and slipped her camisole over her head, pulling her hair out from the back and looking around for her sweater. She was sure she'd still been wearing it when they'd stumbled through the door and into the bedroom - Killian had been shirtless by then, and she'd been sucking eagerly on his neck, her tongue dipping into that hollow spot above his collarbone with her nails raking down his naked back, but she'd definitely been fully dressed.

"Forty fucking days. Every year. Like I'm coffee, or chocolate, or-"

"I'm giving up chocolate too this year," she interrupted, and he propped himself up on his elbow and glared.

"So I'm on par with _confectionary_, then? Thanks a lot."

Emma wished she hadn't said anything, fussing with the twisted straps of her camisole and trying to ignore the tingling between her legs, the throb and echo from their evening of amorous activities. And they had been _very_ active. In the bed, against the wall, on the floor, and in the armchair.

Her sweater was draped over the back of the chair and she picked it up, turning it over and frowning. There was a large black scorch mark down the back of it.

"Killian! Would you stop burning my clothes?"

She held up the sweater, pointing to the mark, and his glare dissolved into a knowing smirk.

"You do remember just who it is you're sleeping with, darling, don't you?"

_Bastard_. The ruined turtleneck was balled up and thrown straight at his face. He caught it easily before it actually hit him and she stalked over to his large walk-in closet.

Killian called after her from the bed, "You know I'll buy you a new one."

"That's not the point," she muttered. He always replaced anything he ruined, and she suspected the main reason he "accidentally" burned or ripped her clothes was so he could buy her new things, at a price point far above what the original had cost. She didn't accept expensive gifts from him otherwise, and he'd tried many times over the years to tempt her with his material wealth, but she always either returned the gifts to him or sold them and used the money for a good cause. Finally they had come to an agreement, he'd stop sending her jewelry and the other items she didn't need or want, but he could pay for anything he damaged, and there was one kind of gift he could send her that she wouldn't refuse.

Except during the forty days of Lent. The six week period that began on Ash Wednesday was a time when the faithful fasted, prayed, and swore off pleasures and indulgences. It was a time for repentance and self-sacrifice, and every year she did her part and gave up her own small vices. Sugar. Caffeine.

And her one major weakness, the demon lounging on the bed and pouting at her like a sulky toddler who'd had his favourite toy taken away.

She took one of his button-down shirts off a hanger and put it on. It was perfectly starched and ironed and bore a high-end designer label that undoubtedly had a price tag to match, but she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and tied the shirttails into a knot at her waist. She fished out a hair tie from her pocket and quickly finger-combed her hair into a messy ponytail.

He wasn't looking at her when she emerged from the closet, he was lying back against the pillows with his hands behind his head. Anyone else might mistake his pose for one of indifference, but she knew him far better than that and she leaned against the door jam, waiting for him to try to change her mind.

"There's no reason why we can't still see each other. You can remain abstinent in my company if you wish, I promise I'll behave."

She could only imagine the "you have got to be kidding me" look she was currently sporting at the idea of Killian Jones behaving himself.

"No you won't, and it's not just the sex I'm giving up, Killian."

As passionate as their highly unorthodox relationship was, it wasn't solely about sex. It would be so much easier for the both of them if it was, if they were simply "friends with benefits" as it was called in the current parlance, merely scratching an itch with each other and nothing more.

"No," he sneered, staring at the ceiling, "You're giving me up, the dirty little secret you hide from the world. Trying so hard to atone for your sin, my angel? All those nights of slumming in a demon's bed? Forty days of penance won't erase the fact that you eagerly spread your legs for me the rest of the year, _Emma_."

She flinched at the barbed words but she didn't rise to his challenge. They went through this every year, Killian fought her with every weapon he possessed, trying to chisel and chip away at her resolve, searching for the weak spots in her defences. He thought she was trying to free herself from their entanglement, banishing him from her for good and seeking absolution for the secret she kept from heaven.

_If only he knew the truth._

Her voice was quiet, "I'm not trying to erase anything."

He rolled to his side, facing her with a contrite look, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Just...come here, we've still got some time left."

She had already stayed far longer than she'd planned, letting him talk her into another hour, another fifteen minutes, ten minutes, five minutes. It was amazing what he could accomplish in only five minutes, but she needed to leave.

"We really don't," she whispered, moving to the side of the bed and looking down at him. Killian ran his hand up her thigh, hooking a finger in her belt loop. She felt the heat of his touch even through her jeans, and could see his erection under the thin sheet that draped across his hips. Even though they had each just thoroughly satisfied the other several times over, she wanted to tug the sheet off him and take him in her mouth, drive him crazy with her tongue until he couldn't stand it a second longer, his hips straining off the bed and her name on his lips, spoken as a benediction, his only prayer. Then she'd straddle his lap and ride him past the point of coherence, reducing that clever wit to nothing but the most primal of grunts and groans, and do all of it while wearing nothing but his own shirt.

Killian was smirking again and his hands were on her hips, fingers curling around to cup her ass and the heat was sinking into her, making her want to just melt right back into the bed with him and stay there for _days_.

_Tempting_ her to stay.

But there was no more time left for them and she took a step back, out of his reach. Disappointment flooded his face and he lay back with a sigh. He'd tried to negotiate, he'd tried to goad her into a fight, he'd tried to seduce her into staying, _again_. They went through this every year.

He didn't say anything as she retrieved her shoes and went to the bedroom door, "Forty days. No calls, no texts, no emails. Don't try to contact me, Killian. Please."

"You still hear me though, don't you?"

She froze with her hand on the knob. He had never actually asked her that before.

"I...yes. I still hear you."

When she looked over her shoulder she saw that he was sitting up, his eyes narrowing at her, "You ask me not to contact you, but you've never said not to-"

"I know," she interrupted, pulling the door open. _Please don't ask me why, this is hard enough as it is._

His shoulders slumped and he hung his head, running his hand through his hair, "All right. Forty days. If you need me, you know I'll be here, but I won't call you or try to see you."

She felt her own shoulders drop in relief, "Thank you."

Killian spoke in just above a whisper, "Until then, blessed one."

"Goodnight, infernal one."

The door closed with a soft click, and she laid her palm against it for a moment before pulling back and closing her eyes.

When she opened them again a heartbeat later she was standing in the darkness of her own empty apartment. In the kitchen she saw the clock on the coffeemaker turn over to midnight. It was Ash Wednesday, and her forty days of sacrifice had begun.

She missed him already.

* * *

_**Locked Out of Heaven**_

**Ash Wednesday**

He woke up the next morning in a foul mood.

_Why did she have to do this every fucking year?_

It was Ash Wednesday, the day when the devout would sport the symbol of their faith on the foreheads. They would be lining up already in churches across the city to receive the mark, the cross traced with the ashes of palms, bestowed upon them with the admonishment, "_Remember that you are dust,_ _and to dust you shall return._" or more simply, _"Repent, and believe in the Gospel."_

_"Don't try to contact me, Killian. Please."_

He lifted his phone from the nightstand and checked for any message from Emma. Even though he didn't actually expect one, he still felt a flicker of disappointment when he didn't see her name. For the next forty days there would be no calls, no texts, no contact of any kind from her. While he loved modern technology and embraced it wholeheartedly, unlike some of his kind, it had turned into a double-edged sword. They could never see each other as often as they wanted to, but they could talk and send messages and he had become used to the instant communication with her. But it only made the silence more deafening, during the six weeks of Lent when his angel was so close yet was as unreachable as if she had gone to the one place where he couldn't follow.

Killian flopped back down on the bed, dropping the silent phone onto the mattress. Emma's scent still surrounded him, it had permeated into his sheets after the hours of fucking the previous night. His whole bedroom smelled of sex and heaven and he wanted nothing more than to find her and drag her back where she belonged, in _his_ bed, in _his_ arms, and make her forget everything else but _him_.

His fingers twitched with the urge, but he held himself back. Emma would give in to him eventually, it was only a matter of time. Even though she thought he was impatient, and he was in some ways, always tearing and burning her clothes off in his haste to reveal that perfect body (and so he had an excuse to send her a gift she wouldn't send back), he would wait forever for her to finally succumb. When she fell right into his arms at last, it would be worth the wait.

But the next six weeks were still going to massively _suck._

That night at his club he sat in his booth with a drink in his hand and watched the endless parade of sins. Lust, of course, but also a fair amount of greed, envy, pride. Married men didn't bother to hide their wedding rings, breaking their vows without breaking a sweat. The women who once swore that they would never do more than dance closed the doors to the private rooms and went down on their knees for the right price. A few even still bore the remnants of the ash on their brows and he lifted his scotch to his lips to hide his amusement. The world had changed but people didn't, not really. They'd repent with one breath and have their heads turned by temptation the next. He saw it happen, night after night. He offered it, he encouraged it, he gloried in it.

He never repented for his sins.

A dancer approached his table, she had long blonde hair and eyes the wrong shade of green. He waved her off with a flicker of annoyance, he wasn't in the mood. When she left with a pout he sank back into the shadows and stayed there for the rest of the evening.

The silence stretched on.

_"I still hear you."_

Two weeks later the city erupted in a shower of green and gold, and all the bars and clubs stocked up on Guinness and hung their walls with faux-Irish decor. The Jolly Roger was not among them, and he banned everyone on his staff from sporting any tacky leprechaun-themed crap while on the clock. They wondered why, but knew better than to question him. It might be dressed up now as a Hallmark holiday to sell _Kiss Me I'm Irish _T-shirts and shamrock headbands, but he was still bound by the rules and only a few really knew why he did not allow the celebration of a saint's feast day in his club

Emma would understand. Her scent had all but faded away, except on the sweater she had left behind. She had been so preoccupied with getting his pants off that she hadn't even noticed he had scorched it when he lifted it over her head and tossed it on the back of the chair. He had a replacement all picked out to send to her, made from cashmere, handknit in Scotland, and the ruined one had been folded and placed on a shelf in his closet, next to the empty hanger that had held the shirt she took with her when she left.

He wondered if she wore it when she was alone in her apartment.

He wondered if she took it because it smelled like him.

Wondered if she'd fuck him wearing it.

If she'd even fuck him at all ever again.

Every year she gave him up, and every year she came back. A part of him always feared that she wouldn't return, that the forty days of fasting and prayer would give her the resolve to finally wash her hands of him and end their relationship for good.

_"My beata, my blessed one, my angel. Emma. Hear me. I miss you."_

He wondered if she really was listening. If she was, there was no reply.

The days grew longer and the nights shorter. He indulged himself in everything he could think of, food, alcohol, sex, getting roaringly drunk and sleeping with someone new every night. He bought a brand new Escalade on a whim and seduced the saleswomen on the test drive, pulling into a secluded parking lot behind a restaurant that was closed for renovations and screwing her in the backseat. But he was short tempered and irritable most of the time, and his employees all gave him a wide berth.

_"He's like this every year,_" he heard one mutter behind his back, and he fired the man on the spot.

Chocolate rabbits and brightly coloured eggs appeared in the stores and the local news ran a story about an overnight power failure that forced a soup kitchen affiliated with the Cathedral of Saint Raphael to discard thousands of dollars worth of potentially spoiled food. The mayor was interviewed, never missing a chance to get her face on camera and give a pithy soundbite that was essentially meaningless, "I personally called Father Hopper to confirm the extent of the loss...the good citizens of the city will not let this need go unmet."

He was hardly a "good citizen", but he made a large anonymous donation to the charity that ran the soup kitchen, on top of his normal monthly contribution.

The shit he would get in for that if it was ever discovered, but he knew how to cover his tracks. Besides, no one would ever suspect a demon was _tithing_ of all things, and to an angel no less.

_"The things I do for you, Emma."_

Holy Week began on Palm Sunday, and apprehension clawed at him. Lent would end just before the evening Mass on Maundy Thursday, and all through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday he was edgy and tense. Had she repented and withdrawn from him at last? He wasn't going to go fucking quietly if that was the case, he had seduced her once and he could do it again.

_"Speak to me, blessed one."_

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Killian swiped his finger across the screen and the notification popped up, informing him of a new text message from Emma Swan.

* * *

_**Breaking the Fast**_

**Easter Sunday**

The knock came just after ten p.m. It had been a long week, full of yearly rituals. Blessings and processions, adoration and reproach. Seeing to the traditions of old, it was her duty, her divine purpose.

She was bound to serve and she did, up early every morning and home late every night, with almost no time to spare for anything else.

_Almost._

Emma opened the door. Killian was standing on the other side, in the narrow hallway outside her apartment with his left arm behind his back.

"Salve, beata" he said with a nod of his head, greeting her formally.

"Salve, damnate," she replied, stepping back to let him enter. He was dressed in his usual attire, a dark, sharply tailored suit that was a stark contrast to her own casual outfit of tank top and yoga pants, with her hair still a bit damp from her shower.

Killian turned on his heel as she shut the door behind him and held out his hand, revealing what he'd brought her.

The one gift she wouldn't sell or refuse. She had no desire for _things_, for the acquisition of expensive clothes, jewelry or other earthly possessions, but she did like flowers. Their fingers brushed when she took the bouquet from him, the cellophane wrapping crackling in her hand, and he glanced down, taking a lingering look at her body that almost felt like a caress, a heavy-lidded gaze full of promise. Emma found herself staring at his mouth, and a line from the Song of Songs ran through her head.

_His lips are lilies, dripping with liquid myrrh_

She found a vase and filled it with his gift, not lillies, but a generous bunch of gardenias, and she didn't quite meet his eyes as she trimmed the stems to fit and set the arrangement on her kitchen table. He stood perfectly still, watching her the whole time.

"Do you like them?" he asked.

"I love them. Thank you."

She looked at him then and saw a corner of his mouth lift in a hint of a smile. It was strange, it had only been six weeks since they'd seen each other last, and if eternity was a beach, then six weeks wouldn't even be a single grain of sand. Yet it felt like they were staring at each other across an entire dune as an awkward silence fell.

"So," he said at last, "I got your message, obviously. And, I'm here."

It had been a single text sent during a snatched moment of privacy just before Mass on Thursday, _"Can you come over on Sunday night? Around 10?"_

His reply had been immediate, _"Yes."_

The breaking of the fast, another ritual that she wasn't quite meant to honour in this way.

They met in the middle of the room, her fingers curling in the lapels of his jacket as she rose up on her toes and kissed him desperately, sucking hard on his bottom lip. His hips aligned with hers and large warm hands circled her waist, pulling them flush.

"Emma," he muttered when she dipped her head and traced kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, "Angel, my angel. Were you listening?"

"Always."

She had heard every whispered prayer from her silver-tongued devil over the last forty days.

Now she would answer him.

She dragged a thumb across his lips and he sucked it into his mouth as his hands moved higher, under the thin material of her top and spreading across her back. With her ruined sweater in mind she grasped his arms and pulled his hands away, wrapping her fingers around his wrists.

He tried to look innocent, lowering his chin and looking at her through his thick fringe of dark lashes as he started to reach for her again.

"No."

"But-"

"No, Killian."

She backed him into the living room and his legs hit the edge of the couch. He sat down on it with a muffled thump and she followed, straddling his lap with a knee on either side of his thighs. They kissed again, a bit sloppily, hard and needy presses of lips as she reached for the buttons on his shirt. When she got it open Killian leaned forward enough to let her push both shirt and suit jacket off his shoulders, shoving them down his arms while he pulled his hands free, then he leaned back into the couch, giving her access to his belt buckle.

There was nothing innocent about the way he was looking at her now, his nostrils flaring with each sharp inhale and the tip of his tongue poking out from his lips. Emma undid his belt and lowered his zipper, feeling his heavy erection slide against her hand. There was no mistaking just how aroused he was, and she felt the spreading dampness between her own thighs, the burning ache that had built up over the last forty days and begged to be satisfied.

She was an angel, not a nun. Her vow was not one of chastity, and never was she more grateful of that fact then when Killian was sprawled out under her, his hips arching and letting out a hiss of pleasure when she freed him from the dark boxer briefs. His hipbones were sharp against her palms, his stomach pulled tight, the muscles twitching under his skin, and she knelt on the floor between his legs and watched his eyes flutter shut before lowering her head and closing her lips around him.

"Like that, _fuck_, just like that."

She dragged up and down the length of him, slow, then fast, and felt a hand fist in her hair, "Emma, it's so good. So fucking good."

Killian thrust up into her mouth, increasing the pace. She circled her hand around the base and sucked hard on the tip, and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering. He was close, so close, she could feel the tension in him, the need for release, and he tried to pull her away from his lap in time but she went back down on him and didn't let up until he jerked and pulsed, coming with a deep groan.

Emma sat back on her heels. Killian's eyes were still closed, he was slumped back on the couch with his chest heaving and he spoke in a voice that sounded utterly wrecked.

"Well. You're happy to see me, I take it. Very, very happy, you must have missed me terribly. Of course you did, who wouldn't miss this dashingly handsome face?"

"You're so full of yourself," she said, shaking her head.

"No darling, you're the one who's-"

She cut off the outrageous remark he was about to make, lunging at him and covering his mouth with her hand. His eyes shot open, the blue darkened to a deep indigo. She felt him kiss her palm, and his hands grasped the hem of her tank top, lifting it up. With the material bunched above her chest he pulled her bra cup aside and cupped her breast, circling a hardened nipple with his thumb and her hand fell away from his face to grip the back of the couch.

"Admit it, blessed one," he chuckled, "You missed me."

She met his gaze head on, "Infernal one, I never said I wasn't going to miss you. I did. Every day."

His hand stilled and she made a slight sound of protest, pushing against him. For a moment he didn't move, then his face split with a grin, a dark, knowing look that sent a shiver down her back even as he went hotter than a furnace against her.

Her clothes joined his, scattered haphazardly on the floor and shoved carelessly aside, and she wound up bent forward over the arm of the couch with Killian behind her. Wet, heated kisses were pressed to her back, her legs were nudged apart with his and she felt him line himself up, and then the delicious stretch and burn when he slowly pushed inside.

"Oh," she gasped, rocking her hips back to take him the rest of the way, "Killian!"

"Every day, Emma. I thought about you every day. I missed you every day. Why do you do this to me every year?"

He punctuated every word with a hard thrust and she didn't answer, _couldn't _answer, she could only clutch at the couch and brace herself, letting out more breathy gasps and little moans. Killian held her hips, cursing and swearing under his breath as he continued to move inside her, deep strokes that were tinged with his anger and frustration. Emma closed her eyes and gave in to the sensations, each push and pull of their joined flesh that brought her closer and closer to the edge.

Abruptly, the angle changed as they shifted at the same time and she was suddenly _there,_ the pleasure cresting and breaking over her in a wave. Killian followed seconds later, giving one final thrust and letting out a hoarse yell as he spent himself and they both collapsed in a heap.

"I'm buying you a new couch. This thing is a piece of shit."

"No, you're not, and the couch is fine."

"It's not fine, beata, there's a spring digging right into my ass."

He shifted, obviously trying to find a more comfortable position. She was plastered to his chest, with their legs stretched out, feet dangling off the end and her couch was really too small for this, but she was not going to let him buy her a new one.

They argued about it for a bit, bickering back and forth, and she didn't notice what he was doing until it was too late.

"Whoops," he said, when she saw the black mark on the upholstery and huffed at him in annoyance, "What a terrible accident. But now, as per our agreement, I will purchase you a new one."

"That was no _accident_, infernal one."

Killian radiated smug satisfaction, pulling her back down against him. She rested her head against his shoulder and sighed, he had built that loophole right into their deal, the crafty demon.

But she didn't feel like fighting about it after missing him for forty days and she let him gloat over his victory. He had kept his word and stayed away, not interfering despite how much he chafed against the restriction.

Emma knew he didn't really understand her need to give him up every year, he couldn't understand it. Killian thought she was doing penance for her secret, but that wasn't it.

She fasted, because he _couldn't._

Her sacrifice, for his sins.

It might not be enough, in the end, she knew he was incapable of being saved. But as he tempted her to fall into darkness, she would do what she could to keep him in the light. She had to try, at least.

"We're not going through this nonsense again next year," Killian mumbled into her hair, "This is the last time, Emma."

It wasn't.


End file.
